


We are both losing (So who cares who fired the gun)

by kindoflike



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:37:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5187230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindoflike/pseuds/kindoflike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her hair is in a messy braid and her cheeks look flushed. She’s leaning against the wall across from the door and she’s standing in a way that says she’s been standing for a while. Waiting. For Clarke. </p><p>It doesn’t feel real. Clarke actually finds herself blinking a few times. She can’t think of any words to say that are more pressing than a loud and resounding </p><p>“What the fuck’</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are both losing (So who cares who fired the gun)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a weird little thing. not really linked to anything else i've written. A modern interpretation of Clarke and Lexa meeting again, i guess?

The elevator for the apartment is broken. It has been out of order for nearly a week now and still Clarke waits at the bottom for much longer than she should. It’s a daily struggle she has with her brain in which she has to brace herself for the treacherous stair climb. 

Clarke had woken up at that morning at close to 11am, which had become the routine now that the gallery had given her night shifts a few months ago. She’d showered, dressed and chewed on a banana on her way to the coffee shop across the road. She’d had a chat with the barista, Natasha about how shit the weather was being and then she’d sipped her coffee on her way to the library. There, she’d sat for a while. The exact number of hours is up for debate. But she’d filled her head with dates and facts and filled her head again. Her eyes had eventually rebelled, pleading an inability to focus. She’d smiled at Selassie, the library receptionist and walked outside. It had started to drizzle with rain but not enough to bother getting her umbrella out so she had walked through it to the sandwich bar on the other side of the road. She bought a falafel wrap and a fresh orange juice and sat inside to eat, watching the people passing by behind the rain streaked glass. 

And now, after such a normal inconsequential tick-off-your-calender-with- no- remorse kind of day, as she’s beaten the stairs and rounds the corner to the hallway in which her apartment belongs. The day turns, twists, starts, into something quite extraordinary. 

_Lexa_

Her hair is in a messy braid and her cheeks look flushed. She’s leaning against the wall across from the door and she’s standing in a way that says she’s been standing for a while. Waiting. For Clarke. 

It doesn’t feel real. Clarke actually finds herself blinking a few times. She can’t think of any words to say that are more pressing than a loud and resounding 

“What the fuck’ 

Lexa’s eyes flit up and it’s strange, to see the exact moment when someone sees you. Clarke hadn’t forgotten her eyes but her memory hadn’t done them justice. Hadn’t been able to recreate that exact shade of green. 

Lexa’s face splits into an expression that is too many things all at once and Clarke comes to halt a few steps after eyes meet. There’s still a good few feet between them and it is all at once too much distance and not enough. 

There is a moment then, a rare and wonderful moment. A moment where every one before it and every one after it become smeared, blurry and faded. A moment when all she knows is the carpeted floor under her feet, the cool metal of the key in her hand, and the gaze of the woman in front of her. 

And then, because a moment can only last for just that

“Hey.’ 

Lexa is almost smiling and she is so beautiful and it makes Clarke’s chest tight before everything that has happened is suddenly flashing through her mind like it is desperately trying to remind her to be angry. And she is. Incredibly, exceedingly. And that dumb almost smile is not helping in the slightest. 

“Hey? Hey? It’s been almost a year and that is what you are going to open with?’ 

Lexa seems taken aback but doesn’t cower. Some things, Clarke thinks, do not change. 

“Hello seemed too formal. What would you rather?’ 

“Anything. Literally anything else. Like maybe what the fuck you are doing here’ 

Lexa smiles kind of grimly and seems to debate a witty comeback. That’s what they are good at, after all. Saying so much and yet nothing at all.

But, and Clarke must admit that it surprises her, she seems to deflate a little and stands up straighter, more serious. 

“Can I come in?’ 

The idea of her sitting on Clarke’s old and worn couch drinking tea or something else so innocuous and normal, after everything that has happened and after how long it is has been would be enough to make Clarke laugh, if it didn’t make her want to cry. 

( Clarke kissed her on that couch once, too and perhaps that is what makes her afraid. That she might do something so stupid all over again.) 

“Not until you give me some answers. On my doorstep, Lexa, really? I thought we were better than clichés.’ 

“Don’t do this now, Clarke. I deserve it all but can we do it some other time?’ 

Clarke wants to spit fire back at her for the presumptuousness in her words, for the familiar click when she says her name. For the resignation in her voice. She wants to yell and scream in desperate hopes that Lexa will spit fire back at her. 

They were always good at arguing, crashing and smashing against each other, running up against walls and tearing old ones down before scrambling to rebuild them. Something loud and volatile would be better than the heavy silence that hangs in the air between them now, better than how Lexa’s shoulders are slumped and all of a sudden the shock of seeing her has worn off enough that Clarke notices how exhausted she looks. 

(Clarke remembers once reaching out and trying to brush away the dark and bruise-like circles from under Lexa’s eyes, remembers asking, begging and pleading ‘Come to bed, Come to bed, Come to bed. Remembers once how Lexa had tried to keep an amused smile at bay when Clarke had once just clambered on the desk all over the books like a cat to try and get Lexa to stop working for the night.) 

This is a different kind of tired. Those are not the dark circles of someone who wants to stay awake. This is the tired of someone who cannot sleep. 

Clarke sighs frustratedly and unlocks the door, steps inside and against all common sense, holds it open. 

Lexa looks like she can’t quite believe it was that easy and Clarke sighs

“I thought I’d have learnt how to say no to you, by now.’ 

Lexa pushes herself off the wall and walks, almost gingerly across the threshold. If this was before, Clarke would’ve gotten a playful smirk, an equally as playful innuendo and maybe a soft and warm hand on her arm. 

But now, as if she needed any more reminder about how much time has passed and how something terrible has probably happened, to warrant such an unexpected resurgence in what can only be described as heart ache, she gets only dulled green grey eyes, a voice that is drained and cracking and only the scent of an entirely new perfume as Lexa walks inside. 

“I’d have thought so, too.’ 

The door swings shut.


End file.
